


The outward sl^ns we all may see. 
The hidden springs we may not know. 

— John Greenleaf Whittier 




W^xlJz^.^ i/i/;ciic.^.^.t A^-^-^'/ 



With best wishes and the compliments of the season. 



CflliriatmaH 



Brookslde, Great Barrln^ton 
Massachusetts 



Copyright, 1916, by 
William Hall Walker 






iPC IB i9i6 






S'tr 01i|arlton ^{tcliarbs* ^ast ^^iss 




e7^ 



ASTER CHARLTON RICHARDS was graduated by 
Balliol at the end of the Term, and the records of 
Balliol show that he was not particularly proficient in 
any of his studies. He was first in the Balliol cricket 
team, which for three consecutive terms had beaten everything at 
Oxford, and tlie same records show that these extraordinary victories 
wire entirely due to his batting and his fielding, Charlton also was 
mainly the innnediate cause of Balliol's winning three successive 
races at Henley, where he was stroke oar, and while he fainted on 
all occasions after these hard-earned races, he was carried to the 
Balliol boathouse on the .shoulders of his exhausted crew and sere- 
naded the same night. 

Master Charlton, when graduated, was within three days of his 
twentieth birthday, a well-knitted, huge-framed giant, his manly 
face crowned In' a fine squnre forehead over which fell a profusion 
of l)lond hair. 

The Richards family were of old Devonshire stock, dating back 
some two hundred years, and "Burke's Peerage" testifies to the 
fact that no member of the family had ever sullied the race by 
any act of discourtesy or dishonor. 

Sir Evelyn Richards was deeph^ mortified at his son's failure to 
take "honours," and furthermore did not mince matters by silence 
at home. No evidence of this state of affairs ever leaked out, as 



that would be contrary to good form, and so the world was never 
the wiser. 

Young Charlton continued his open-air athletic habits, riding to 
hounds, fishing, driving, cricketing, and travelling. No one knew 
better the Bay of Naples, where he kept his yacht, upon which ha 
spent the better part of every winter. Algeria, Tunis, Biskra and 
Sicily were as familiar to Charlton as his Piccadilly. He would take 
his pipe, and with a biscuit in his pocket, loll away entire days on 
the slopes of Vesuvius, and no goat-track was too steep or rough 
for him. 

One day he was reclining on a grassy hillock, smoking and 
nnising, when there came up the path a goat with its tinkling bell, 
and after the goat a little bare-legged brown-faced girl. The child 
gazed at Charlton with big-ej^ed wonder. Never had she seen a 
man with blond hair, and such a monstrous creature, too. Charlton 
saw her, but seemed not to be aware of her presence; so, shyly, 
the child approached him out of curiosity, and finally sat near him, 
still gazing fixedly into Charlton's eyes. Finallj', she came nearer, 
and said in Neapolitan, "Why does Signor come here?" Charlton 
did not reply, but as she came still nearer he was impelled to rebuff 
her, and had actually opened his mouth to send her about her 
business when he noticed for the first time her beaulv. 

"What is your name?" he asked her. "Pipita," she replied. 
"Where do you live?" The child turned slightly to the right and 
said, "Down there." "Down there! W'here?" "Why, just down 
there in the hollow." "What are you doing here?" Charlton asked. 
"Tending Grippa." "Who's Grippa?" asked Charlton. "Why, there 
she is," pointing to the goat. "Oh, yes — ah, um — yes, yes, I see. 
But why are you alone?" "Alone! Why not? There's Grippa, 
Grippa and I are always here. I like the silence, and Grippa likes 
the grass." "Oh, I see — yes! You tend Grippa, and Grippa tends 



you." "Yes, Grippa and I are very good friends." Then, coming 
nearer, Pipita seated herself close to Charlton, and noticing his 
fob chain, said, "What's that?" "What's what?" said Charlton. 
"Why, that shiny thing there," pointing to the chain. "Ha! ha! 
You little woman! Just like all the rest of your sex — always at- 
tracted by anything that glitters." The child seated herself close 
to Charlton, nestling, with her pretty head against his breast, and 
toyed with his fob. Charlton's back was supported against a broken 
column of African marble. The day was warm and the sun was 
slowly sinking in the west, the waters of the bay barely moved 
by the sultry breeze. The thin blue Vesuvian smoke floated lazily 
toward Capri, which, glowing in the red rays, was a ruby set 
in blue. 

Away to the left Sorrento basked in the evening's glow, and to 
the right, over the promontory of Posilippo was fair Ischia, like 
a sapphire in a golden haze. Charlton succumbed to the beauty and 
the heat, and, resting his head against the column, slept; and the 
child too, her head on Charlton's breast, and the fob still in her 
hand, slept also, and Grippa stretched herself on the sod, and all 
three, Charlton, Pipita and the goat, were in dreamland. 

When Charlton awakened the sun had sunk into another day and 
the stars were in the vault above him. The circle of the great 
bay glistened with a thousand lights, and a great ship was putting 
out to sea — to India or Japan! 

Charlton rubbed his eyes, trying to remember where he could be, 
and why the child was so near him; but when he saw Grippa, who 
had begun to munch the dry grass again, he remembered all about 
it, and was troubled as to what he should do with Pipita. Finally 
the child opened her great dark eyes and said, "Does Signor live 
in Naples?" "No." "Where does Signor live?" "Oh, ah— in Eng- 
land." "England! Where's England? I know all the places around 



here, and I never heard of England." "Oh, England is far, very far 
from here. It would take you many weeks to walk to England." 
"Is England beautiful?" asked the child. "Hum, ah — well that 
depends upon the time of year one visits England." "Does the sun 
shine in England, Signor?" "Um — well, perhaps, sometimes; that is, 
in summer." "What a funny place England must be," said Pipita. 
"The sun always shines here. Are all the men like you in England?" 
"Hardly, at least few. Why do you ask such silly questions?" 
growled Charlton. "Why should they be like me?" "Because," 
said Pipita, "if they are, I want to go to England." 

Charlton rose with a jump, and Pipita rolled over into a hole, 
the frightened child cowering before the angry man, who the 
moment before had been smiling into her eyes, and then she 
rose and, stumbling over a rock, fell to the ground with a cry of 
pain. 

Charlton seemed to care nothing about the child. Why should 
he have any interest in this Neapolitan brat, with her bare legs and 
ragged frock? But finally he walked over to her, leisurely, with 
his two hands in his breeches pockets, and said, "Are you hurt?" 
"Yes, yes. Oh, my ankle! I cannot walk." "Here's a pretty kettle 
of fish," mumbled Charlton. "What the devil shall I do with the 
brat? I can't leave her here all night. Serves me right for per- 
mitting her to hang about me," and he leisurely filled his pipe, and 
then, with his flint, lighted it. And musing, he said, "Where did 
you say you lived?" "There," said the child, "Don't you see it?" 
"See what, you silly? I see nothing but that pile of rocks." 
"Yes, but there's where we live." "We, we, you booby, who's we? 
Answer me at once." "Why, Father and Mother and Grippa and 
me." 

Charlton's huge jaw dropped. "Here," he said, "I suppose I must 
take you home, you bag of rags. Hang me if I ever come here 



again." And he then picked up the frightened child as if she were a 
bundle of hay, and tiie big Englishman walked down the slope with 
Grippa trotting after him still chewing her cud. 

When Charlton came to the pile of rocks, he saw no one; but as 
a thin blue smoke came from a cleft between two rocks he assumed 
that someone was inside, so he stopped at the hole which served 
as entrance and shouted: 

"Hey, there, you ! Come here, and be quick with you." 
A dark and wrinkled woman, with a low forehead and black, 
dry hair hanging about her shoulders, appeared. She held in her 
left hand a blackened earthen pot, and in her right a bit of wooden 
stick with which she had been coaxing her evening Are. When she 
saw Charlton she drew back into the hole and called in a high, 
staccato voice: "Alfredo! Alfredo! Here! Here, quick, quick! 
There's a man here." Then, peering througli a cleft of the rocks, 
there was a fierce eye studying Charlton, and a wrinkled and dirty 
hand grasping a short but very sharp knife. Charlton spoke fairly 
good Neapolitan, as he had been coming to Naples for many years 
and had many friends down below on the marina. Many an hour 
had Charlton spent with some dusky boatman, listening to some 
legend of tlie Camorra, some feud which neither time nor circum- 
stance nor wealth nor poverty could assuage, until one night it was 
aU paid for by a dead and bleeding corpse up a dark and fetid 
alley. So Charlton had no diflBculty in making Alfredo understand 
that he had found Pipita on the hillside above and had brought her 
home with a sprained ankle. Immediately a great and total change 
came over Alfredo's swarthy face. He stuck his knife into its 
sheath with a bang, and came running to Charlton's side. He grasped 
Pipita tenderly and tearfully in his bare arms, and dropping 
upon his knees, he raised his tearful face toward Heaven and 
cried : 



"Holy Virgin! Mother of Jesus! Christ Almighty! Thou who 
knowest the hearts of men, see thy servant and this thy child, help- 
less and forlorn. Forgive her, I pray thee, all her sins; grant her 
thy Holy Spirit, bring her back again to health and strength that 
she may, by her daily acts of mercy, soften the sorrows of this 
wicked world, and, laying down her burden at last, enter into thy 
Heavenly Kingdom." 

As Alfredo ended, his head was bowed into the hillside dust, his 
body was quivering with emotion, and his tears were falling over the 
face of his prostrate child. 

Charlton stood transfixed. Alfredo's change from suspicious hate 
and vengeful, red-eyed threatening was, even to him, accustomed 
as he was to Neapolitans and their ways, a matter for surprise. 
But as he stood there thinking, Alfredo called: "Grattana! Grat- 
tana! Here, you slut! Come here, or, by the Virgin, I'll brain you. 
Here, you rotten flirt, give me that apron of yours. Go away I 
Don't you dare to touch her, or I'll knife you into shreds, you 
lazy soul." 

So Grattana tore off her dirty ai)ron, and Alfredo, with his knife, 
slit it into ribbons and wound them about Pipita's ankle. 

Neapolitans, especially, are quick to take offence. They will 
wait without any external evidence of hatred for their opportunity 
to settle a grudge which would have been forgotten in ten minutes 
in England. Some night, years, perhaps many years, after, you 
feel a quick sharp pain between your shoulder and your sj)ine, and 
it's all up with you. You are bleeding to death, and around the 
corner there, a stealthy, swarthy face grins with glistening teeth. 
Grappo is happy now. Somewhere, there will be a very large fiasco 
of Chianti opened to-night, and four men will lift their glasses to 
each other. Nothing will be said, the wine will be drunk in silence; 



but these four men look steadily into each's eyes, and they under- 
stand. 

"So! So Signor brought Pipita home, did he? Signer will honor 
us by accepting our simple meal. Here, you lazy fool ! Grattana, 
I say, get that rissotto quick. Signor will sup here. Go on, 
you ..." 

Charlton forgot all about Tunis, where he had promised to be on 
the morrow for a week's shooting, and he ate his supper with a 
wooden spoon, holding Pipita on his knee, while Grippa the goat 
sniffed about for scraps. Indeed, no scraps are ever in any Neapo- 
litan home — never. 

Then they all slept on the earthen floor, except Charlton, who had 
been given the only suggestion for a bed, which was a pile of musty 
straw in the corner not more than three feet from the fireplace, 
which was only a recess of rough stones. When Charlton looked up 
from his fetid mass of straw he saw through an opening in the roof 
the constellation of the Pleiades floating by, reminding him of a 
theorem in geometry which old Professor Hughes had used to im- 
press something on his mind, and "how the old gentleman used the 
Pleiades and some star to illustrate his theorem. So he fell asleep. 
With all the vague things which in dreamland float before us, 
Charlton saw two things with an intensity that no lapse of time 
or circumstance could ever efface — one, a crafty, vengeful face, 
and the man with that face turned at once into a suppliant angel. 
But last, and always last, and last again, a child nestling in his 
arras, and fast asleep. 

Morning came, and morning in Italy — well, if you have never 
seen it, how can you sense it? Did you ever look over the plain 
around Perugia while the sun came over the hills beyond? Ah I 
the memory of it, the thought of it, thrills me, even after these 
twenty years. So Charlton, stooping, came out into the morning 



air at dawn to clear his lungs. The sun was still below the eastern 
skyline, even from his elevated position fully two thousand feet 
above the molo at Naples. 

The waters reflected the blue vault above. Over beyond Sor- 
rento was a rosy hue, more pink than rose — or, was it more rose 
than pink? — which, slightly reflected by the surface of the sea, 
made a picture so beautiful, so subtile, so delicate, that the iri- 
descence of the pearl would seem crude and coarse by comparison. 
If Velasquez could have seen it, it would have stirred his pulse, 
but Charlton was not Velasquez, and had often wondered why his 
father persisted in keeping three of Velasquez's paintings hanging 
In the library of Bellington Hall, when Charlton knew for a fact 
that he had been offered enough for them to lift a mortgage of 
twenty years' standing. 

Hearing a voice, Charlton turned and saw Alfredo so very near 
him that he instinctively jumped away fully five feet. Alfredo 
smiled. "Signor will have coffee?" "Yes," said Charlton. "I must 
be off at once. I was to be in Tunis this morning to meet a friend." 
"Tunis, where is that? Tunis! I never heard of Tunis. Where's 
Tunis?" "Over there," said Charlton, pointing over the sea with 
his thumb. "Ah — ah ! I've never been away from Naples, and I 
never want to." "Don't you like to travel?" said Charlton. "No, 
no — never. Look, only look at that — at that," said Alfredo, pointing 
toward the sun just peeping over Sorrento, gilding the entire Bay 
of Naples with its oblique light, while the shadow caused by the 
Sorrento cliffs was a deep sapphire blue. "Where — where, Signor, 
does the sun come like that? Why go to Tunis? Stay with us, 
Signor is welcome, always welcome, and Grattana will make you the 
sweetest spaghetti. Ah, she is a cook! Grippa will give you milk, 
and Pipita — well, Pipita may love you. This way, Signor. Coffee 
is served." 



After cofifee, Charlton was about to start down the mountain 
side to rejoin his yacht, and he had passed out of the hole which 
served as doorway when he heard Pipita say, "Does not Signor 
care for Pipita?" Charlton turned into the hut again, and there, 
in the dim light, he saw Pipita, her bronzed face bathed with 
tears. "What are you blubbering about?" said Charlton. "Are 
you still in pain?" "Oh," said Pipita, "I don't care for that." 
"Then what are you crying for, you silly. Only fools cry." "Then 
I'm a fool, am I?" cried Pipita. "Yes, a fool, a silly goose, a — oh, 
hang it all, what's the use of talking to an Italian brat like this?" 
Pipita sat upon the bundle of straw, her eyes were dry now, and 
lier dark cheeks were aflame — yes, scarlet, white, blue and green. 
"You ! You ! You ! Were you going to leave me without saying good- 
by? You beastly creature! May the snakes bite you, may the 
scorpions sting you, may the lightnings blight you." Charlton stood 
petrified. Could his ears deceive him? Had he mistaken Pipita for 
a child? Was she older than he thought? He glanced at her breast, 
which was exposed, Italian fashion, to within a few inches of her 
waist, and saw at once his mistake. Pipita was a woman. "So 
Signor — so — so Signor was to leave Pipita. Out of this, you brute — 
you coward! May Satan have you, body and soul." Now Charlton, 
for all his brusque outside, was within a gentleman, and cen- 
turies of careful breeding had done its work. He felt touched 
— yes, touched — this great hulk of bone and sinew, this brave, tough 
athlete who could row until he fainted dead away before he would 
allow Magdalen to win at Henley. Why, it was a tradition at Bel- 
lington Hall, that, seeing a farmer's child attacked by a bull in an 
adjoining field, throwing the reins to his groom, he jumped from 
his trap when his horse was doing his twenty miles an hour, vaulted 
over the hurdle fence into the field, pushed the child through a 
space between the hurdles, then, grasping the buU by the horns, 



threw him, and then vaulted into the road himself, and lighting his 
pipe drove down to the village as if nothing had happened, as cool 
as a cucumber. When his father heard of this child-bull episode he 
asked Charlton about it, but Charlton replied, "Nonsense, that's 
nothing." 

So Charlton was touched, and knowing that he was face to face 
with a woman, he walked over to her and held out his hand. Pipita, 
somewhat softened, eyed him closely and said nothing. Finally 
Charlton said, "Can't we be friends again? I'm going away. I 
may never see you again." Pipita burst into tears and sobbed as 
if her heart were breaking. "You! You! Leave me forever! Holy 
Virgin!" and she swooned. 

Charlton, his manhood finally on the surface, lifted her gently and 
folded her in his brawny arms. "Pipita, Pipita dear! Never mind, 
child. Here I am, my little sweet, right around you, and you are 
safe." Pipita opened her eyes slowly, and seemed to be utterly at 
a loss to understand the situation, but when she did, she threw her 
two arms about Charlton's neck, pressing her face to his. Her brown 
breasts lay against his bosom, and her tears drenched his 
clothes. 

Charlton held her away from him by both hands, that he might 
have a last good look at her loveliness, drew her very slowly toward 
him, kissed her first on one cheek and then on the other, and then 
full on her two lips — a long, long kiss — and then he laid her down 
on the straw and bolted out of the hut as if he were being chased by 
a mastiff. 

Charlton never forgot that kiss. Many a night, when he slept 
on the sand beside the Temple of Luxor, or among the snows of 
the Himalayas, those warm lips pressed his, those budding breasts 
were cushioned against his bosom, tliat flexible, willowy body clung 
to him, and those tears coursed down his cheeks. 



Before he left the rocks he ascertained Alfredo's family name, 
and the first thing he did when he reached Naples was to visit the 
Banco di Napoli and arrange that the sum of five pounds sterling 
should be paid over to Alfredo every quarter, that Pipita was to 
have four new frocks of her own selection, one every three months, 
and also any ornament to the extent of twenty pounds a year. 
Grattana, too, was remembered. She was to have a new frock every 
feast of San Gennaro, and a string of beads and a rosary every 
six months. Grippa was not forgotten either, for she had a new 
beU at once and a bundle of carrots weekly. So Charlton sailed 
for Tunis that night. 

The next summer, one day in June, when the birds had come 
back from Africa to England, and the distant hills wore their 
chiffon veils, when the roses and the daffodils and narcissi were 
in bloom, Charlton drove up the long drive of the ancient seat 
of the Bellingtons, and old Sillington, the butler, with tears in his 
eyes welcomed him home again as "Master Charlton." 

His father's valet soon put Charlton's room to rights, for this 
room was always kept ready for his return, and this time had been 
aired for two years since he was there last. 

Sir Evelyn never came down to coffee. As a young man he had 
lived for many years in Paris, and his manner and way of living 
was more Continental than English. But when Sillington took his 
coffee in to him and told him that Master Charlton was downstairs, 
he pushed old Sillington and his coffee aside, and grabbing his two 
sticks, gout or no gout, he was going to breakfast with the beggar. 
So down he hobbled by the grand staircase, with his red-velvet 
dressing-gown and his brocaded smoking cap, and so, straight up to 
Charlton, as if he were to put him out of the house. "So — so, you 
vagabond, you braggart, you vulgar denison of hotels and restau- 



rants, you thought that you would like a cut off the joint, did you? 
Tired of ragouts and curries, of souffles and pates, and all those 
miserable abominations! Aha! Ha, ha! I thought you would come 
trailing up the drive some day thirsty for a glass of Bass. Ah, 
I say, speaking of Bass" — and Sir Evelyn came very near and whis- 
pering, for fear Sillington might hear him — "I say, you silly, eh! 
Have you been to Voison's lately?" "Yes," answered Charlton, 
"I dined there last night." "Dined there last night," said Sir 
Evelyn; "dined there last night!" and the old gentleman drew the 
back of his velvet dressing-gown sleeve across his mouth, and gazed 
intently into his son's eyes. "I say, boy, listen! Did you have a 
bottle of that Chateau Lafitte — eh?" Charlton nodded in the affirma- 
tive. Sir Evelyn groaned, and hobbled out of the room and into 
the dining-room, where he seated himself at table. 

So they breakfasted together, the father and the braggart, and, 
to celebrate the occasion, old Sillington decanted a bottle of Sir 
Evelyn's choicest port and, placing the decanter at Sir Evelyn's 
right hand, took his usual place behind him. Sir Evelyn absently 
poured out a glass, then holding it to the light, and sniffing it, 
turned scarlet. Then looking over his shoulder, he said, very 
quietly, unusually low for him, "Sillington, you must be ill." "Me! 
Oh no, Sir Evelyn; I'm not ill." "But — but — why, bless my soul, 
Sillington, you're getting dotty." "I hope not. Sir Evelyn." "God 
bless me, he is dotty. Port! Port, man — port for breakfast! Who 
ever heard of such a thing? Call the doctor." "Why, Sir Evelyn, 
it's like this. Sir Evelyn, may it please you, I thought you would 
like to drink to Master Charlton's return." Sir Evelyn became livid. 
"But, damn me, who ever heard of port for breakfast i" Then, 
pouring out a glass, he said: "Here, you beggar — here's to you, 
and I hope you will have a happy marriage." Charlton had his 
glass in his hand, but he started as if he had been cuffed (and no 



one could cuff with impunity Master Charlton Richards) and spilled 
the entire glass of wine over the cloth. "Sir, may I ask what it 
was you said a — a — about a happy marriage?" Sir Eveljrn frowned. 
"You young sprig, do you suppose that you are to stay around here 
— a bachelor?" 

Charlton rose from the table and walked three times around the 
table, while Sir Evelyn sipped his coffee and glanced quizzically at 
Sillington. Sir Evelyn cut a second wing of pheasant and a bit of 
Yorkshire ham, neither of which he had touched at breakfast in 
forty years, any more than he was in the habit of drinking port for 
breakfast. Charlton was in a blue flunk, and as he paced the floor 
and hung his head, he said to himself: "Marriage, marriage! Did 
the Governor really mean I was to marry?" Absurd! He was 
having his little joke. The port, the joke, and the pheasant and 
the Yorkshire ham were all rank nonsense. And yet, from what 
Charlton knew of his father, there was no likelihood of his changing 
his mind for anybody. At least, he never was known to pay the 
slightest attention to her Ladyship's wishes when she was 
living. 

Finally Charlton ceased his pacing, and after filling his glass 
again with port, lifted it slowly, and looking fixedly into his pater's 
eyes over his glass as he drank it: "Well, Governor, I think I'll 
take a turn about the kennels and see the dogs. By the way, how 
is old Folly?" "Folly! Old Folly! Why, Folly's dead. She died 
only one week after you sailed for Gibraltar two years ago last 
September." "Dead! Old Folly dead!" Charlton paused and 
buried his face in his two hands and groaned. One of the thoughts 
he had in his mind the evening before at Voison's was that on the 
morrow he and old Folly would have a good tramp, and perhaps 
raise a bird or two. And now, dear old Folly gone — gone — gone! 
Suddenly he straightened up and walked straight to the decanter 



,:,\Jf.-r,--trrt'§- 



and poured out two glasses of port, one for his father and one for 
himself, and just then he looked at Sillington, who was getting out 
another glass and fumbling with it in a peculiar way. 

"Well, Sillington, what is it? Speak up, man." "May it please 
you and Master Charlton — may I drink this toast with you?" 
Sir Evelyn half-turned in his chair. He was evidently suspicious 
that Sillington was still dippy. Then, turning to Charlton, he saw 
him raise his glass, and still not knowing what it was all about, he 
raised his own, and Sillington filled his glass and raised it also. 
Charlton said: "To old Folly, God bless her!" Not another word 
was spoken. Charlton went out of the room. Sir Evelyn, after 
a moment, went into the library, and Sillington cleared off the table 
together with the port-stained cloth. 

"So the Governor has made up his mind, and it's all up with me. 
No more yachting, no more dahabcahs on the Nile. No more 
Biskra, or shooting on the Yang-tse. What rubbish these women 
are! Why were women made, anyway? They know nothing about 
man or his needs, and I never saw one yet who dared to talk of the 
many subjects which a man would deal with quietly and logically, 
without flying the track as soon as ever the trend of argument 
approaches a conclusion. Off she goes, for all the world like Fillip. 
By the way, I wonder if Fillip is living. I have straddled many 
animals, but never one like Fillip. She would be going along like 
a kitten, when she would sidestep into the hedge — all over a drifting 
leaf. It was never safe to ride her after the leaves began to fall. 
Then the women! They are, besides illogical, as they call it, 
'temperamental!' If anyone knows what that is, I don't. If a 
woman can't keep to one way of thinking five minutes, if she looks 
and acts like an angel one minute and like a fury the next, she 
says she's 'temperamental,' which is as good a term as any to describe 
an utterly impossible proposition. And so I'm to be tied up to 



such a thing for life, compelled for courtesy's sake to consider her 
every wish, to ride with her in Rotten Row, to sit opposite her at 
— dinner. To lift my glass to her every evening, when there are 
ducks in China, cranes up the Nile, tigers in India and prairie 
hens in Dakota, aU waiting to be shot!" 

The great oaks were just as he had left them — the oaks of his 
grandfathers and his childhood's old friends, and he leaned his great 
frame against one, and placing his cheek against the rugged bark, 
wept like a chUd. 

"Oh, Pipita! Plpita ! Father, have mercy, have mercy I" 

The Lady Philippa was the only unmarried daughter of Sir Regi- 
nald Percy, and his seat was also in Devonshire, but a few miles 
away, so Charlton had not long to wait to find out who was to be 
his bride. For the third day, after the breakfast with the port. 
Sir Reginald and his daughter, the Lady Philippa, drove over in 
their landau and spent two weeks at the Hall, and arranged all the 
settlements. 

The Lady Philippa was not tall, her complexion, somewhat dark, 
her hair tending toward black, and slightly streaked here and there 
with whitening hair. She dressed this hair somewhat low about her 
forehead, which gave the face the appearance of an oval. Her 
eyes were a deep chestnut brown, tending toward black, the brown 
only visible when the sun shone directly into them, and the observ- 
er's were shaded. The eyelashes were black and upturned, and the 
general effect was almost almond-shaped. Her face at rest was 
a study, and suggested some poignant grief. Her voice was remark- 
able, a fine rich contralto, never rising above a middle note even 
under intense excitement, and when she became interested the tout 
ensemble was that of a Madonna. If deeply moved, her whole 
frame would bend towards you, her hands clasped and resting upon 



her lap; the cadence of her voice thrilled you, roused you, impelled 
your strict attention; the eyes would glow as if lighted by some 
hidden fire. Her French was perfect, and an echo of some salon of 
Tours. Charlton had heard somewhere that she was born in Rou- 
mania and of course that was enough to disgust him. In fact, she 
suggested a lovely, radiant, blossoming Roumanian valley under the 
first light snow of the coming winter. Charlton certainly was not 
burdened with any superfluous imagination, but years after they 
were married he called her Carpathia, much to her delight. 

When the Lady Philippa first saw Charlton's huge frame and 
somewhat distant manner, she shrank as if she had received a blow; 
and naturally this shyness raised Charlton's ire, and he had great 
difficulty in concealing it. But good breeding produces won- 
derful results, and, as the saying is, "Blood will tell," especially 
if there is a woman in the case. So Charlton settled down to his 
wooing. 

At first he made very little progress, but gradually he discovered 
that she had a lot of good "horse sense," as he called it, about many 
things, and, what was more, a mind of her own and not afraid to 
contest matters with anybody. Charlton had never met a woman 
like this before, who, as he said, could talk without gloves about 
politics, religion, theology, sociology, marriage, birth control, chil- 
dren, education, the rights of wives, and the rights of husbands too. 
She quoted both Latin and Greek authorities with equal facility — 
in Latin, Greek or English. Plato, Aristotle, or Marcus Aurelius 
were all the same to her. She claimed that no man should ever 
enter his wife's room by day or night without his wife's express 
permission. She asserted that the ethics of the ancient Greeks were 
infinitely finer, nobler and more uplifting than any subsequent 
schemes of morals or philosophy. 

Charlton was dumfounded and utterly confused, it was all so 



very strange, and he frequently made some excuse to leave the 
room for a few moments to collect his thoughts. So, as a matter of 
course, he in time became interested in her, and found himself 
seeking her, first in the breakfast room, then in the library, then in 
the gardens, and then, wonder of wonders, he began picking flowers 
for her. One rainy day they were walking down in the meadow, 
and he had picked some buttercups, and had, owing to his sailor's 
knowledge of knots, made a rather pretty wreath for her hair. 
Then her shoe-lace became imtied. Now, the land down there is 
always wet, but this rainy day it was a bog. No one but two web- 
footed English people would ever think of being there. But down 
went Charlton with both knees into the ooze, and after tying her 
lace, he rose and bowed somewhat stiffly; but the Lady Philippa 
had a peculiar expression, and a light in her eyes that Charlton had 
never seen before. 

Philippa wore the buttercup wreath down to dinner, and with a 
black gown and with her black hair she looked charming. 

The next morning Charlton was down very early, and seemed to 
be restless. He thought coffee was late, and snapped at Sillington, 
when, as a matter of fact, it was exactly prompt, as Sillington always 
was. Then he fussed because the Lady Philippa was late, when the 
fact was, she was waiting for him at her seat at the table. Then 
he followed her out into the old rose-garden, and walking up to 
her and bracing himself squarely before her, after picking a rose, he 
held it toward her, saying brusquely, "Will you have me?" "Have 
you, you — I don't understand you." And he looked bigger than 
ever; but the blue eyes never quailed, and he said again: "Look 
here now! Don't you know I'm serious? Will you marry me? 
Have me — marry me — don't you know?" Then the little woman 
looked down and colored, and was silent. But Charlton was not 
the man to accept silence as his answer, and he advanced and 



ofifered her his rose, and as she took it she looked up into his eyes, 
and before Charlton knew it he had her in his big arms and 
was kissing her. Then he remembered Pipita's kiss again — yes, 
Pipita's. 

It is forty years since Charlton made the buttercup wreath for 
the lady now known as Lady Richards of Bellington Hall, and 
there were at this time not less than five children living by that 
marriage — all married and with children, but one — the last. Nothing 
pleased Sir Charlton Richards, as he was now, more than to have 
them all about him, for he was absent from England much of his 
time on affairs of state, as he was not only a Privy Councillor, but 
had been Ambassador at St. Petersburg, Paris, Vienna, and Viceroy 
of India. 

It was Christmas Eve, and the old Hall had been trimmed with 
mistletoe and evergreens and holly. Huge fires were burning in all 
three reception rooms, and Sillington (2nd) had closed the dining- 
room to keep the children out while he laid the cloth. There was 
dancing, for the music was from London, and Sir Charlton had three 
times waltzed with his youngest granddaughter, Mildred, besides 
joining in a Sir Roger de Coverley, and feeling somewhat tired, for 
he was now weU past seventy years of age, yet hale and hearty and a 
good shot, he strolled away into the library, where there was a fine 
yew-log burning with a flame five feet high, and drew his easy- 
chair near the hearth and was soon in the land of nod. 

Again he saw the blue Vesuvian smoke drifting slowly over to 
Amalfi. Again Sorrento glittered in the setting sun like some tur- 
quoise flower in a sea of gold. Again fair Ischla's sapphire cliffs 
loomed out of the open sea, and a willowy form nestled close to 
him. Again he felt that long, warm kiss upon his lips. 

When Sir Charlton's valet came in to help him to his room, Sir 



Charlton did not move. He seemed asleep, and fearing to awaken 
him, the valet waited beside the fire. Then Mildred came running 
into the room and shouted, "Oh, Grandpa! look at my dolly," and 
climbing into his lap tried to draw him to her for a kiss. The head 
came down, and Sir Charlton Richards received his last kiss — the 
sweetest kiss of all — the kiss of a little child. 

W. H. W. 



When a feller goes a-huntin' for a rose 
He shouldn't be a-thinkin' of the thorn; 
He must woo it, he must ivin it — 
Where his heart beats he must pin it, 
An' breathe the breath that's in it 
Every morn! 

When a feller goes a-huntin' for a rose 
He shouldn't see the thorn beneath its breast, 
But for all its thorny foes. 
Bed and reckless, — one poor rose 
Is sweet enough, God knows, 
For the best. 

— Frank L. Stanton. 




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